


fylgja

by mutuallyassured



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, Asexual Bloodhound, Gangbang, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 02:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutuallyassured/pseuds/mutuallyassured
Summary: Doors glow red if occupants are not accepting new partners. Green if they are. A vast array of colors further indicate preferences for gender, species, and specific sex acts.Revenant’s door is coded with none of these colors, because it is open.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 70





	fylgja

**Author's Note:**

> the hundredth revhound fic i've started and the first i've finished. many, many more to come.
> 
> thank you to [greatcatsbys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatcatsbys) and [notxyle](https://twitter.com/notxyle) for cheerleading. you're both worthless skinbags.

The club is called Oilslick.

Bloodhound has never been to it, and the neon-backlit sign says MEMBERS ONLY, but the bouncer takes one look at their covered face, at the cords of their respirator disappearing into their dark jacket, and accepts the credit chit from their gloved hand.

“VIP deck’s upstairs,” she says. “Nice and secluded.”

“Thank you very much,” they tell her, and mean it. Any other night . . . Well, any other night, they wouldn’t be here. But if they _had_ to be at this club on any night but tonight, for any reason but the reason they are here, they would appreciate her conscientiousness and accept the privacy.

Revenant, though, is not a private person.

Inside, Oilslick is sweat and smoke and pounding bass, silver solar lights twirling in a dizzying shimmer across midnight walls. They pass a staircase and the VIP sign above it, decline one greeter’s drinks menu and another’s tray laden with a vast array of packaged sex toys, stim wands, and lubricants. She flashes them a smile and runs a fingernail over the film covering a fist-sized oval of soft pink jelly. “Not to your taste? Or not in your budget?”

“The former.” They consider the branching, labyrinthine network of hallways beyond and swallow their discomfort to ask, “Can you tell me where I might find rooms for an anonymous encounter?”

She points them left and left again, through a nook filled with padded benches and rubberized frames to a balcony that overlooks a sprawling auditorium. 

A forest of hundreds: bodies of every size and shape, mech and flesh. People in conversation, in rapture, holding drinks and whips and one another. Every method and manner of sex, their sounds and scents rising to Bloodhound overhead, overwhelmed.

They grip the railing, drawing breath. It centers them to remember why they are here. To think of the repairs. To recall the unsettling grind of Revenant’s hip, his normally ugly mood worsened by obvious hidden wounds. How he snapped and snarled at their offer of help until Natalie, their third, confessed she couldn’t stand the sound, and if Bloodhound didn’t fix it, she wouldn’t stay.

“We don’t need her,” he griped, but stopped at the next cabin in Swamps, and sat on the stairs, and let them unkink the mangled wires of his pelvis.

Careful, patient, meditative work. His manufactured breath slowing. Artur’s low coo from the sill.

They peer into the crowd.

He is not there. Or, at least, he is not lazing among the masses as they expected. Not fashioning himself place of choice in the thick of decadence. Perhaps they misjudged him. Perhaps he is in a pocket of shadow. Perhaps he is alone.

They cannot be sure without descending.

After another moment of steeling themself, they take the stairs. On the floor below, it is almost impossible not to touch, to be touched. They are not small, and the others are so drunk on something they cannot taste. Hands and thighs graze their arms, their hips. Not purposefully; they swing toward the first brushes and find people gesturing midword or dancing pressed close, with eyes only for their partners. Revelers who mean no harm.

Bloodhound squeezes close to the wall for a tedious circuit of the auditorium. At the end of it, they are exhausted and certain Revenant is not tucked in some corner unseen. The possibility they misjudged looms more likely. He may be in the VIP deck. He may have kept a meeting, and already came and went with whatever partner, two days ago, cracked his joint casing, pulled out his wires, and left him to deal with the damage.

As they turn to leave, starving for even Solace City’s smog-choked air, a voice unthreads from the clamor: “ . . . thought they were exaggerating, but he’s just letting anyone, I’m serious, _anything_ . . . ”

A tall mech, taller than Revenant, with a human companion, emerging from a discreet side hall. 

Bloodhound steps in their path. 

“I would like,” they say politely, “to know where you’ve been.”

The rooms in the hall have translucent doors, and a system of colors explained by a hologram that floats next to Bloodhound as they search. Doors glow red if the occupants are not accepting new partners. Green if they are. A rainbow of colors further indicate preferences for gender, species, and specific sex acts.

Revenant’s door is coded with none of these colors, because it is open.

He makes no sound.

His voice, they mean. _He_ is silent.

His body, though, is audibly breaking.

They see it briefly, long enough to make sense of what’s happening, before backing out of the doorway and flattening themself against the wall outside.

An hour elapses, then two, then three. More. Revenant never speaks. Some of his partners do. Some cushion their awkward entrances with nervous laughter and tasteless jokes. One murmurs to him, checking his consent—and that Bloodhound watches, only withdrawing when they spot his languid thumbs-up. Others come with company and ignore him altogether. They lose count of how many use him. He has a reputation, it seems. Most who enter the hall come straight to his room, and appear far more surprised by Bloodhound’s presence than the unlit door and his eerie silence.

A line forms. The noises grow wetter. The tang of molten metal fills their throat.

Finally, it ends.

His voice rises unbidden, a taunt from matches past: _“I’m not gonna make it quick. That would spoil all the fun.”_

They do not want to see the fun, nor the spoilage. They do not want to see what has become of him.

Is it the kind bouncer who brings him back, after? Is there another, the last of the line, who arrives predawn to ferry him home? Or is there no one?

He is curled on the floor. 

There is no bed in the room, just a tall metal slab. He was upon it last time Bloodhound looked. Now the entire surface is slick with fluids that bleed from the edges and spatter onto him where he lies, his biolights whispering offline with every false, labored exhale.

The hip they fixed yesterday is shattered anew, as is its sibling. Sparking wires have been torn from his thighs and married to mismatched ports that stud his chest. The silicone seam of his jaw is mis-set, half unhinged and dripping. His wrists are crushed. The backs of his hands are ripped raw, their mirrored H’s clawed to slivers. The padding that surrounded his spine has been torn into strips. Knots of it bind his ankles.

And between his legs . . .

They crouch to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Revenant.”

He shudders, and says nothing.

_“Revenant.”_

His optics flare. Something in his neck gives with a clicking, insectile _crunch_ when he twists to look at them. “You,” he says hazily.

They reach to support the base of his bare skull. He tenses, then uncoils, spreading on his back and shoving into their palm. “Me,” they reply, because they cannot think of what else to say.

He snorts. “Knew you’d be the one to get nosy.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Oh,” he drawls, “not long enough.” His laugh is cruel, cold. He lifts a hand and watches it loll on his wrist. Then he drags it between his legs, sliding bent fingers over his two swollen valves. “Why don’t you take a turn?”

“No, thank you.”

“Not into sloppy seconds?” He clenches his fingers nearly to a fist. Nearly fits it inside himself. “Or sloppy hundredths, I guess. Who cares. Still warm,” he says, tipping toward them to rub his cheek on their knee. “Still wet. You’ll slide right in.”

A flickering tendril slips out of his dislocated mouth and creeps along their inseam. “How about my mouth? You can have it, Hound,” he purrs. “You can take it. Fuck me up. Anything you want.”

His golden cat’s eyes gleam with temptation.

They close their left hand on the scruff of his neck and seal their right over his mouth, forcing him back. Pinning him beneath them. 

He contorts, wrenching his head. At full strength, he might have thrown them.

But he is weak, and Bloodhound has gentled furious beasts before. They tighten their muzzling hand and plant their left knee on his closest wrist. Their right they notch to the center of his chest. They lean into him. 

He stares up at them.

“You are not,” they say, very softly, “allowed to touch me.”

The tendril squirms along the hem of their glove. They pinch it, hard, with two fingers.

A sudden tremor runs through him. Swells up through his frame and collects in their hands like rainwater in leaves. It races to their roots, their ribs, their mouth, their mind, while he holds their gaze and shakes again.

“Do you mean that,” he says.

They cannot breathe. They can hardly think. What this is—

They don’t know what this is. What fragile thing they have stumbled on.

They do know fate led them to him, tonight. Fate paired them with him, and with Natalie, and fate watched from the rafters while they soothed his injury and puzzled the tale scraped into him, old marks and new. Fate watched them war with their constant desire to remain uninvolved, to focus on their promise and their path. It watched them surrender to their instincts, that gutting unease. It watched them track him here.

And it watches them now.

They curl their body over his.

“I do,” they promise.

He does not touch them.

They touch him.

After, always.

The bouncer—Mira—arranges for Bloodhound to use the staff entrance, and to store their repair kit in the security office. She arranges for them to meet her colleagues. That night, a chair appears in their usual spot outside Room 28.

They don’t understand why he chooses this method—whether he’s chasing pain or pleasure or punishment. But they don’t need to. All they need is to wait in the hall while he is broken.

Then they close his door and come to him.

Position him. Reattach his limbs. Rewire his nerves. Unbend, undent, unravel, until they can map his frame more intimately than their own. They wash him inside and out. They cover him with their jacket. They sleep on the floor at his side.

Most nights, when they come to him, he recognizes them.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

Once, he asks them to call him Kaleb.


End file.
